6,329 days ago (that’s 17 years and 4 months), history was made: High School Musical gave us the smash hit, “We’re All in This Together,” and I guarantee that nobody in 2006 could have foreseen how inescapable that phrase would become. For better or worse, it became the slogan of our freshman year and beyond. But for all its repetition, it holds some truth. Because Class of 2023, we’ve survived four years of uncertainty–the occasional fire and drip-proof buckets lining our hallways–got us here onstage. And I have to say, I couldn’t be prouder.
That being said, all the records broken, money raised, and time survived online and hybrid couldn’t have been accomplished without the support of our community. Teachers, you adapted in the blink of an eye and continued to stick with us, especially when it got tough. Coaches and mentors, you motivated us through all the late nights and early mornings, the wins and the losses. Bus drivers, you also suffered late nights and early mornings and somehow contained all your road rage, which is better than I can say for myself. And shoutout to teamplayer Mr. Linehan for driving the school van more than once; that definitely wasn’t in your job description when you signed on, but you have our neverending gratitude. Custodians and lunch staff, you kept the whole place running with often thankless work. This high school that we all know and love would be dust without you. Parents and guardians and found family, you sourced probably at least 50 percent of all our fundraisers, raised us from screaming, crying, non-selfsufficient little kids to… well, moving on. Members of the Board of Education, you help keep this district running day in and day out. Mr. Brown, you showed up and showed out to so many of our school events, supporting us from the sidelines even if it meant driving for hours in terrible Ohio weather to see your students excel at what they love. Ms. Kristina White, you documented thousands of these important moments, cheering us on from behind the camera, just as you’re doing now, and we can’t thank you enough. To the rest of the community, we appreciate you for being our community in the first place and celebrating the end of this journey with us.
It’s hard to sum up all of the hours we’ve spent here into a few short phrases, so frankly I won’t even try. But I will say, when I think back on the last four years, I can’t help but recall the seemingly inconsequential things first. For instance, I remember the click-clack of Mrs. Ruziscka’s heels during the whole ACT. (Mrs. Ruziscka, this is all in good fun. The noise kept me awake—for the most part.) I remember sitting on the bleachers at 9 a.m. because of a gas leak and talking to people I’d hardly ever spoken to before. And I remember thinking we’d be back in school by the end of our freshman year—we were sorely deluded. Hindsight bias 2020, I suppose. But these little things are what made these last four years memorable. The snapshots in time and people we meet that seem fleeting in the grand scheme of things, but make high school a little bit more bearable.
See, the kids you mentor after school are just as important as the awards you win. The bond you have with your team is just as important as the championship trophy. The impact of helping a stranger and being a friend is just as, if not more, important than a number on a paper. In this case, it’s okay to “sweat the small stuff,” especially if the small stuff is your community. Like I said earlier, none of us would be here without the support of dozens of other people. Beyond the medals and trophies and accolades and GPAs, we have nothing if not each other.
When I gave my thanks to everyone who got us to this point, I left out a pretty important group of people: my peers. In all honesty, some of us never thought we’d make it this far. Some of us got earlyonset senioritis in our sophomore year. (I’d be a liar if I said “not me.”) But I want to emphasize that while we earned our places on this stage, we are not our transcripts. We aren’t limited to the numbers and letters on an 8.5x11 sheet of paper. And while I’m eternally grateful for the opportunities I’ve had, my experiences don’t even represent the whole of this student body. So, to the kids who had missing parents during parent meetings; to the kids who didn’t always go to sleep with food in their bellies; to the kids who went to school on an empty stomach; to the kids who got so nervous before tests they felt sick (I know the feeling); to the kids who fought to get to this stage; to the quiet ones, to the ones still finding themselves, to the class clowns who use comedy as a shield; to every single graduating student thinking, “just give me my damn diploma already,” I absolutely could not be prouder of you for where you are right now. You deserve the colors you’re wearing; wear them with pride. The people in the spotlight aren’t the embodiment of what it means to be a Springfield grad; it’s everyone sitting here who, despite all odds, still got their cap and gown and the chance to call themselves a graduate from the Class of 2023.
So, as I finally get off this soapbox, let us celebrate how far we’ve come and how far we’ll go. To my peers: stay compassionate, and stay curious. Adulthood can be hard, and sometimes it feels as if the world is running ahead without us, but I promise that life is infinitely easier—and more enjoyable—to survive with a support network. Mutual support keeps us alive and thriving. Keep (or reignite) your passion for learning, because there’s no joy like experiencing something new. Congratulations, Class of 2023; we’ll be a force to be reckoned with. You can Bet On It.
~Jewel Horak
